The Wrath of Cyntax
by booboosofetch
Summary: A Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossover. Cyntax , a time traveling robot, has landed outside of 221B, where she meets the myserious Sherlock Holmes. Travel with her as she explores brand new worlds of frienship, romance, and adventure. This is very very different from anything I have ever posted on here so be warned. I will upload chapters as they are written, like always. ;)
1. Chapter 1

The Wrath of Cyntax  
A Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossover  
Chapter#1  
June.2.2011

A thin layer of smoke clouds Cyntax's vision as she stumbles about the hull of her cluttered time machine. An alarm blares throughout the cabin, warning that she is about to crash.

'Oh shut up!' her metallic hand comes down on a button, disabling the alarm, 'blasted thing.'

The landing function has broken so many times that she has given up on fixing it. It's not like a crash landing will injure her, anyway. She is made of titanium after all.

Moments later, the metal box is yanked from the time vortex and sent plummeting toward Earth. London, to be exact. Having been a pirate for a good 400 years of her existence, she has developed a certain fondness of material objects. This can be quite inconvenient whilst hurtling through space, seeing as those objects go tumbling about and, quite often, hit her in the face. After being smacked by a microscope, a waffle iron, and a plastic flamingo, her ship finally makes contact with land.

'Here we go,' the robot braces herself for a bumpy landing.

After one... Two... Three ricochets, the box finally skids to a halt. Cyntax+ unburies herself, kicking open that door that is now positioned on the ceiling. She barely pokes her head out of the machine when she hears a voice.

'Dear lord!'

Cyntax+ turns to see a wide-eyed blonde. He gawks at the fallen ship, yet to notice what is peeking out of it.

'Sherlock!' cries the distressed man, 'Sherlock, get down here!'

The robot watches intently as another set of shoes steps on to the pavement. This man is the walking definition of "tall dark and handsome". His black, wool, trench coat gives a gentle swish as he walks. His shirt is wrinkle-free, though his boots have a hint of dirt. He cares about appearance but on his feet much too often to keep his shoes clean. This isn't even mentioning his looks. He far exceeds six feet, towering over the5 ½ foot bot. His lean build gives the illusion that he is even taller. His face is incredibly angular. Someone could cut themselves on those cheekbones.

'Look what's landed in the street!' exclaims the blonde.

'I see it, John,' comes the low, rolling voice of the mysterious man.

'Oh joy,' Cyntax+ speaks up, 'the British'.

The bot pokes her head out of the machine, leaning on an agitated elbow.

'Wait,' John marks her sarcastic tone and London accent, 'aren't you British?'

'No, you blasted fool,' she hurls herself over the edge of the box, landing on her feet with grace, 'I'm just meant to sound that way. I'm Canadian, me.' He multi-coloured fringe falls in her face, masking the entire right side. Sherlock's eyes flicker back and forth, taking everything in.

'Enjoying the view?' Cyntax asks, giving him a wink.

There is no physical shift in his posture or facial expression, but the green of his eyes blankets her in warmth. 'You're a fascinating creation,' his voice smiles, though his mouth does not.

'I take great pride in that fact,' Cyntax smirks. He said it so matter-of-factly, but she knew it was a compliment.

The faintest hint of a smile touches his lips for only a moment before vanishing without a trace. 'You act so human. You fooled Watson.'

'Oi!' complains the blonde,' do you mean to say she's not human?' he mutters quietly to his partner. He had been fooled, not that he would admit that to a stranger.

'A robot,' Sherlock answers at full volume, a confident smirk finding its way on to his lips, 'obviously.'

'It's only obvious to you, mate.'

'Metal plating,' Sherlock proceeds to slowly circle the crash, 'Copper and Brass, is it? Though your actual build is made of Titanium, judging by your footsteps,' he pauses just behind Cyntax, 'which war?'

'Do you ask that to everyone you meet?' John interjects. This had, in fact, been one of the first questions Sherlock has asked him when they first met.

'World War III,' her fists clench, making a metallic cracking noise. She hates talking about the war, especially to strangers.

'World war III hasn't happened,' John protests.

'Time travel,' Sherlock snaps, 'honestly, John.'

'Time travel?!' he mutters to himself.

Sherlock presses his fingertips together, his white smile poking out behind them, 'who wins?' he teases.

Cyntax+ turns to face him, her smile returning, 'that information is classified.'

'Worth a try,' the words come out in a whisper, as if they are a secret to be kept only between them. They are standing so close together that Cyntax can feel the man's breath on her synthetic skin. Everything about him is rigid, cold, calculating, yet he has this air to him. Something about him draws her in. Cyntax leans closer, compelled to kiss him.

'You can stay with us,' says Sherlock, stepping backward.

'What?' John rushes over to his flat mate, 'we didn't discuss this.'

'Her ship has crashed. She'll need a place to stay until it's fixed.'

Cyntax+ shakes her head, 'I can manage on my own, thanks.'

'Tea then?' Sherlock's eyes are wide, begging her not to leave.

The robot sighs, her eyes wondering down to her ship, 'Fine. Tea. Let me take care of this first,' she slams the door shut, lifting the box over her head with inhuman ease, 'don't wait on me,' she says, walking off.

'How are you so calm?'

'Check,' Sherlock sets down his Knight with a clack.

'I mean, we've just met a robot from the future, and we're sitting here playing chess,' John slides his Queen forward, sacrificing it.

'I'm playing chess,' says Sherlock, adding the Queen to his collection, 'you're moving pieces around.'

'I'm not in the mood,' John leans back in his chair, ' you've already won anyway.'

'So I have,' says Sherlock, leaning back in his own chair. Each elbow rests on an arm, his slender fingers joining at the tips in his infamous thinking pose. He presses his thumbs to his lips, lightly, a sign that his is deep in contemplation. John knows this gesture well.

'She won't come.'

Sherlock's eyes snap to John, 'I know.'

'Then why are you waiting?'

'I'm not waiting,' he scoffs, 'I'm thinking.'

'What about?'

'How long it would take for someone to bleed out if they cut off their finger and the blood didn't clot.'

'Eight to nine minutes, untreated. You know that. Now, what's really on your mind?'

Sherlock stands up, turning toward the kitchen, 'what kind of tea would you like?'

John follows him in to the kitchen, standing behind him as he rummages through the teas cupboard, 'you fancy her.'

'Nonsense,' says Sherlock, to the tea.

'Of all the people to fancy, it's a robot!'

Sherlock whirls around, a box of chamomile placed in his delicate hands. His body is relaxed but his face is rigid; eyebrows furrowed, lips tight, eyes piercing, ' she is to me like a dead body: a mystery. Though I can deduce some things, she is a virtual stranger. Would I like to get to know her? Yes. Dissect her? Very much. But "fancy'" is not the word I would use.'

'No, I take that back. I am definitely seeing the similarities now.'

'Implying the superior intellect puts me at the same level as a machine,' it is more of a statement than a question.

'More that you're as emotionless as one.'

'Thank you,' says Sherlock with a nod.

'Only you would take that as a compliment.'

'I'll take that tea now, Watson,' he turns to leave, 'you know how I like it.'

'Where are you off to, then?'

'I'm scheduled for an upgrade,' he calls from the stairs.

'Here is your feline, miss,' says an annoyed Cyntax, handing a kitten to an elderly lady.

The woman showers her in thanks for "saving her poor kitty cat."

'It's really nothing. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a previous engagement.'

The robot lets out a sigh of relief as she sets off down the street. She can't stand cats. They remind her of the freak experiments created in the war. The Humans were so keen on killing each other that they were constantly coming up with new ways of warfare. After World War II, they developed ways of reviving land after a bombing. Realizing that bombing was becoming less and less effective, the governments starting creating new kinds of weapons, including mutant animals and advanced war machines. Cyntax+ is one of those machines. Model CybotGX97_014, designed to look Human.

As the war raged on, the war bots got stronger and stronger. They were eventually so powerful that they completely wiped out the Human race. Cyntax+ witnessed this extermination and has since passed them off as blood-thirsty savages.

She has come to prove herself wrong in the meeting of the mysterious Brits. John and... Sherlock was it? Something about them seems almost inhuman; like they rise above the rest. Something about these men tells her they see the Human race for what it is. Especially the tall one.

Humans have a bad habit of looking too closely; so closely that everything is out of focus. Not this man. He can see the world in 20/20, and that is extraordinary. Cyntax+ is very intrigued by him. So she heads back down Baker street. Toward a cup of tea she can't drink, two complete strangers and 221B.

John pours hot water in to two cups, placing them on a tray beside a small plate of biscuits. He blows the stream away before setting it down on the tea table. The same table where they read mail in the mornings and play chess in the afternoons. He is about to call for Sherlock when the very man comes racing down the stairs.

'I'll take that tea to go, Watson. We've got a case.'

John groans, shuffling the tray back in to the kitchen. Sherlock snags his coat off the hook and waits impatiently in front of the door, ' how long does it take to pour it in a thermos?'

'Longer than thirty seconds,' John calls back.

He closes the lids on both thermoses, tucking them under one arm and his coat on the other. He quickly pops a biscuit in his mouth before rushing down the stairs.

'Why are we in such a hurry?' asks John, following his partner on to the street.

'I'm bored,' answered Sherlock, 'and you know what happens when I get bored.'

Watson has very vivid memories of Sherlock shooting walls, beating cadavers, microwaving Human eyeballs, and many other things under the pretences of "bored". This is enough to keep him from protesting.

The doctor shrugs his coat on, trying to keep up with the taller man's pace. Cyntax+ spots the pair from across the way and jogs over to meet them. In doing so, her hair falls out of place, exposing the metal plating that makes up her face. John can see now that her skin has been torn away. That must be how Sherlock knew she was in a war. A closer look reveals the same metal plating making up her right hand and poking out between her warn pantaloons and distressed leather boots. The damage is quite extensive. Similar to that ob bomb victims he serviced in Afghanistan. She is lucky to be made of the metal she is. Most left with out limbs.

'Where are you two off to?' greets the automaton.

'Good question,' comments John, 'where are we off to?'

'Eight blocks south,' answers Sherlock, 'Cumberland Gate.'

'Cumberland Gate?' John questions, 'why?'

'A man's been hung underneath the Marble Arch'.

'in the middle of the day?' asks Cyntax.

'Precisely why it intrigues me,' answers Sherlock.

'We haven't properly met,' Cyntax+ comments after a while of walking, 'My name is Cyntax+, though most people find it easier to call me Cyntax.'

'Well then,' answers Sherlock, 'I'll call you Plus.'

The robot smiles,' no one's ever called me that before.'

He looks down at her, dark curls bouncing as he walks, 'is that a problem?'

'No,' she answers, 'I like it.'

'What's that on your face?' John questions, speaking of the intricate goggle placed over her right eye.

'Safety protocol. If I'm ever kidnapped, I can remove it. Then if I shut down, everything that has happened in the time since my last manual shut down will be erased from my memory bank. Came in handy a bit more in the war, but it's still useful considering-' the robot stops walking suddenly, her face going blank and body going limp. The sudden shut down makes John realize just how inhuman she is. Seconds later, her systems reboot and she begins to speak again, ''Safety protocol. If I'm ever kidnapped, I can remove it. Then if I shut down, everything that has happened in the time since my last manual shut down will be erased from my memory bank. Came in handy a bit more in the war, but it's still useful considering my unfortunate glitch of random shut down.

'How'd that start?'

'Took a swim in the ocean ages ago. Apparently water doesn't agree with my circuitry.'

'It tends not to,' Sherlock comments.

'And you can't fix it?' asks John.

'I'm specifically designed not to be able to access my power core. I was build to serve as an engineer. If I got access to my power core, I could programmed myself to do anything. Not good for the big guys in charge.'

'Why not have someone do it for you?'

'If you find someone who can reprogramme a highly advanced war machine from 2297, give me a call.'

'I guess you have a point,' John trails off.

A few moments later they arrive at Cumberland Gate. Low and behold, there is a man hanging from the Marble Arch. A small crowd surrounds the sight, chatting and murmuring. Cyntax's goggle flashes, saving the image to her memory bank. Wait a minute, this image is already saved. She is suddenly flooded with realization. John, Sherlock, Murder, 221B Baker street.

'Oh my goodness!' she exclaims,' You're Sherlock Holmes! The Sherlock Holmes!' she whips around to face the other man, 'and you! You're John Watson! And here I am, at a crime scene, with the pair of you! Oh this is rich!'

John looks at her in confusion, 'how do you know our names?'

'You're all over the history books! The famous detectives. They never mentioned how good looking you are. That's the thing about history books: no pictures.'

Sherlock stares strait ahead for a long time, every now and then taking a sip of tea.

'I've got it,' he says finally, ' There were three men. One to carry the body, one to drive the car, and the other to break in to that convenient store,' he points to a shop across the way.

'How do you figure that?' asks John, half in speculation, half in anticipation.

'The window in recently broken but not recent enough that there are still bobbies about. So, this morning. Not many people about at that time, but just to make sure that no one saw them, they created a diversion. Then the other two set up a latter, hung the man, collected their partner, and all escaped in less than five minutes. Quite simple really.'

John grins, 'That's brilliant, Sherlock. Really. Some of your best work. I don't think I've ever seen you solve one that quick.'

The detective looks down at Cyntax, ' will this be covered in the papers?'

She nods.

'Good. I suppose I found the killers?'

'Yes sir. Fred Denson, George Derman, and Steve Carwell. Three of the craziest wanks you've ever bagged. Never found out why they did it. Said they were on a job but never said for who.'

'Perfect,' Sherlock pulls out his mobile. He dials and number and brings it to his ear as he walks away.

'What are you doing?' asks John, following his partner. Cyntax+ walks next to him as they all walk back toward the flat.

'Calling Lestrade. This is a six at best. It doesn't deserve my time.'

Cyntax+ looks to John, 'six?'

The doctor shakes his head, 'Yeah, he's got this whole scale. Says he won't leave the house for anything less than a seven. Rubbish if you ask me. It's just an excuse to get other people to do his dirty work.'

'Yes, I'm positive those are the three. What ever you do, find out who they are working for. Do not let them go until you do,' Sherlock ends the call, sliding his mobile back in to the pocket of his coat, 'Now, how about that tea, Plus?'


	2. Chapter 2

The Wrath of Cyntax  
A Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossover  
Chapter#2

December.24.2011

'I really don't see why all of this is necessary,' Cyntax+ teeters on the top step of a latter, carefully placing a poceline star on top of a tree.

Sherlock looks up from his violin. He pauses to flick his cigarette ashes on to the floor, grinding them under his shoe, 'Neither do I, but it pleases John,' he places the fag between his lips, beginning to play again.

The flat fills with the sweet smell of biscuits. The aroma comes wafting from the kitchen where Ms. Hudson, their land owner and frequent caretaker, is baking away. As much as she will deny it, the woman takes joy in looking after Sherlock. Cyntax+ theorizes that she feels compelled to fill the missing mother figure in his life, or possibly the missing son in hers.

The music comes to an abrupt stop as the cigarette is pulled from Sherlock's mouth. John glares at Cyntax, 'you let him smoke?' he shakes his head disapprovingly.

Sherlock is a man that needs constant stimulation. Being not nearly enough murder to serve his interest, he seeks it elsewhere. Elsewhere, being nicotine. John tries to get him to stop, for the sake of his body but as far as Cyntax is concerned, she's happy it isn't cocaine. She'd also prefer he used her as stimulation, but he's far too modest. She's sure he's never been with anyone, very least someone as prone to breaking bones. So she settles for cigarettes.

'I wasn't done with that,' Sherlock complains, rising from his chair.

John puts out the cigarette, staring his companion directly in the face, 'you shouldn't have had it in the first place.'

'It's Christmas. That was my present. Now you owe me a new one.'

Watson schoffs, 'I owe you nothing.'

'Except your life.'

John steps closer to the other man, 'do you really want to go there again?'

Cyntax+ steps between the two men, 'you're both real cute when you're angry,' she sets a hand on each of their chests, separating them, 'that doesn't mean I want to see another fight break out. We all remember what happened last time.'

'I do,' chimes in, 'John was so stubborn, he refused to go to the hospitle.'

'Fifteen stitches, all sewn by hand,' Cyntax adds.

'It wasn't the first time,' John argues, ''nor the last. There's no point paying someone else to stitch me up when I am more than capable of doing it on my own.'

'Right. Now, enough of this chatter,' says Ms. Hudson, bringing in a tray of biscuits, 'you'll ruin your appitites,' she walks over to set the tray down on the table. John follows, engaging her in polite conversation.

Sherlock turn his back to him, quietly placing his violin in it's case.  
'I hate seeing you two fight,' says Cyntax, 'even if it is just spats. It reminds me that you're Human, volatile, willing to turn on your own brother just to prove that you're right.'

'I am right, my brother is a fool, and you are a hypocrite,' Sherlock snaps the case closed, wheeling around to face the robot, 'you're far more prone to loosing your temper.'

Cyntax's fists clench, 'that doesn't mean I would-' she stops, taking a breath, 'I never asked for these emotions. If it were up to me, I wouldn't even have them. If it were up to me, I would be a mindless killing machine. Anything to make me less Human!'

Sherlock stares at her for a long moment, heartbreak in his eyes. Finally, he turns to go upstairs, leaving Cyntax bewildered. Johns hand comes down to rest on her shoulder but she shrugs it off.

'Come on, deary,' Ms. Hudson's voice cuts through the silence, 'don't mind Sherlock. He can be a little… Well, you know how he is… Come, have a seat.'

Cyntax+ ignores the woman, advancing up the staircase. She hovers outside of Sherlock's bedroom for a good while before she finds the will to knock.

'Come in.'

The door opens with a creak as she steps inside. Sherlock lay on his bed in centre of the room that could only belong to the one and only. She's never seen a bedroom so well kept. The spotless condition of everything suggests he has a rutine cleaning schedule. Even the walls are tidy. The only art that hangs is a Chinese proverb and a poster of the Periodic Table. A buero sits against the far wall. It is the same chestnut brown as his bed frame, which so eloquently matches the accent wall. The window is lined with curtains of the same Demask design as his wallpaper. She can't help but smile at the seamless décor. She didn't think rooms like this existed outside of magazines.

'Something funny?' Sherlock's voice snaps her back in to reality, 'Plus?'

'Not really,' she sits down next to him. Sherlock's breathing is the only sound for a long while. Finally Cyntax breaks the silence, 'listen, Sherlock, this is just as hard for me as it is for you. You're just a hell of a lot more stubborn that I am,' she looks down in to his entrancing hazel eyes, 'I'm sorry. For what I said. It was insensitive. I know that this is who I am now. I am this smart-butt, flirty, over-confident, time-traveling robot. This is my life and I love it… I guess it's hard to let go of the past. I have seen Humans at their best… And their worst. It can be difficult not to let the bad outweigh the good,' her words hang in the air for a while as they stare in to each other's eyes. Cyntax+ feels the same sensation as the day they met. A warm, inviting feeling; an utter longing to kiss him.

'I know how you feel,' he says, finally.

'No. You don't,' Cyntax+ leans down, bringing her lips to his. Sherlock's mouth is rigid, not quite sure what to do. Cyntax+ pulls away, rushing out of the room. The detective sits up, watching her go. His breath is heavy, his skin hot, his eyes longing, but she left too quick to see. She was too ashamed of her emotions to know that they were returned.


	3. Chapter 3

The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#3

The setting sun gleams off of the water as it crashes against the shore. Cyntax+ watches the waves from a nearby cliff. She sits in utter stillness, letting the airy fabric of her dress flow in the wind. The rocks shift behind her and she turns to see who it is. Sherlock smiles down at her, dark curls blowing in the breeze. The robot rises to great her lover, wrapping her arms around him. He embraces her, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss. Cyntax+ melts in to him, her hands exploring his warmth.

'I love you,' she whispers.

'Did you say something?' Johns voice echoes through her head, bringing her back to 221B.

March.12.2012

'What?' she looks to the corner where he peers at her behind a paper, 'no. Nothing.'

He gives her a warm smile before taking a sip of tea. She returns the gesture but his attention is redirected to Sherlock as he enters the room.

'Grab your jacket, Watson. We're heading out.'

John nods, taking one last sip of his tea before standing up. Cyntax+ looks longingly upon her flat mate. They haven't kissed since Christmas; haven't even talked about it. Every time she tries to bring it up, Sherlock has a way of changing the subject.

'Can I come?'

'No, Plus, I think it's best you stay here.'

Cyntax+ rises from her perch on a tall wooden stool, 'whatever it is, I can handle it.'

'I know,' Sherlock smiles, 'it is them, my dear Plus, who can not handle you. Believe me when I say this is a [i]sensitive[/i] case. The detective dons his woolen trench coat, taking great care in popping the collar, 'are you going to paint something? You've been staring at that canvas all day.'

Cyntax+ looks at the canvas, 'Yeah, I suppose,' she turns back to Sherlock to find that he is already gone. John gives her an apologetic look before exiting himself. The robot listens as the two men leave the building. Once they are gone, she lets out a sigh and returns to her stool. She squeezes rich oranges and reds on to her palette, beginning to paint.

'What's so special about it?' John's voice pulls Sherlock out of his mind palace.

'I was thinking, John. Are questions really necessary?'

'What were you thinking about?'

Sherlock's eyes pierce in to his partner, 'Things, John. There is a reason why Humans have not been graced with the power of Disambiguation.'

Watson gives him a glare that says: [i]if you do not speak bloody English~[/i]

'Mind reading.'

'I was just wondering,' says John. He would be offended if he weren't so used to it.

'You asked me a question. What was it?'

'The case. What's so special about it?'

'I do not believe I ever used that word to describe it. It's quite average, actually. A man's head was discovered in a freezer this morning.'

'Well that's average for you, isn't it?' John comments, noting the time he discovered the same sight in their own fridge.

'The restraunt has been shut down. Turns out they cooked the rest of him, mistaking it for Flaekensteg.'

John gives him another one of his glares.

'Pork.'

'What restaurant did you say it was?'

'Covent Garden.'

John grimaces, 'I took my mum there!'

'Now you understand why I'm so picky,' Sherlock states, plainly.

'Now explain everything else,' John mutters, his glance veering out the window of the cab, 'Where are we going?'

'Simon's walk, to talk to Benedict Martin. He filed the missing persons report three weeks ago.

'Friend?'

'Brother. Apparently our victim, Fredrick Martin, was a bit of a social enigma. Didn't hang around people much. His own brother didn't know he was missing until a month after his disappearance.'

'What about work?'

'He was laid off back in January. Their family is quite well off. He was living off of his trust fund.'

'I need one of those,' John mutters.

Sherlock pretends not to hear his companion as he continues, 'the police looked in to it after the report was filed, but there was no real evidence until now.'

'How do we fit in to all of this?'

'I told you the Martins are well off. They're offering a large sum of money for the best and brightest.;

'How large?'

'40,000 pounds each.'

John chokes, '40,000 pounds?!'

'Unnecessarily steep, if you ask me. Which, of course, you do.'

'I though you didn't work for money. What the hell are you going to do with a sum like that?'

'Buy a ticket to Bristol.'

'Bristol, of all places. What's in Bristol?'

'A store that will sell me cigarettes.'

'I see now,' says John as they exit the building.

'See what?'

'Why you didn't want Plus to come.'

'Any why's that?' Sherlock eagerly awaits the other man's reply.

'Benedict Martin's good looking. So good looking, he lives in a model house with dozens of other good looking men. Something you forgot to mention in the can.'

'It didn't seem relevant. And if you mean to imply that I feel threatened by those men, I can say with great confidence that my IQ far exceeds the combined score of the lot of them.'

'No, of course not, because that would imply that you have feelings for her.'

'I do.'

'You do,' John validates the statement, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

'Well, more accurately, a feeling. Specifically, a strong feeling of indifference,' Sherlock ducks in to a cab that has just pulled up.

'That's a load of bollocks, that is,' mutters John, crawling in after his partner. If Sherlock heard him, he decided to ignore the statement. Regardless of his speculation, John decides to drop the subject. The cab ride proceeds with little conversation and much uncomfortable silence. This is saying something, considering both of them prefer the silence. This silence, however, was unsettling. Like something very important was left undisguised.

Cyntax+ watches from the window as the cab arrives at 221B. John waves to her as Sherlock pays the driver. She smiles down at him, disappearing behind the curtains. Shortly after, the two men enter the flat.

'How'd it go boys?'

'Not exceedingly well. I didn't learn anything I couldn't have deduced on my own,' says Sherlock, rummaging his way through the kitchen, 'I'm going to stop by the precinct and take another look at that severed head. People say so much more once they can't talk. Isn't that right, Jimmy?' The detective gives a little wink to the scull that sits on the mantle, 'we've just stopped by for a bit of food. John gets cross when he doesn't eat.'

Cyntax+ expects John's usual yelp of protest but is given a simple shrug, proving that this statement is, indeed, true. Sherlock enters the room, bearing four boxes of tea biscuits. Plus can't recall ever seeing him eat anything else, though, obviously, he must. Even the mighty Sherlock Holmes can't survive on biscuits alone.

He stops in the doorway, gawking at the now painted canvas in the centre of the room. It is an exact replica of the image she saw in her mind. A perfect Sherlock and Cyntax+ stand atop a cliff in front of a setting sun.

'Where did you get that from?'

Cyntax looks at the canvas in confusion, 'I painted it.'

'Not the painting,' spits Sherlock, 'the scenery. That beach. Where did you see it?'

She looks back and forth between Sherlock and the painting, feeling a little threatened by his sudden irritation, 'my travels, I suppose. I don't know. It was just in my head,' she looks at him with concern, 'you okay?'

'You don't understand. That beach is a figment of my mind. It doesn't really exist.'

'Is it now? Interesting.'

'I'd say so,' Sherlock stands in thought for several seconds before he is interrupted.

'Must feel odd,' Cyntax+ lets on a grin, shattering her innocent façade, 'being the one in the dark. The man with all the answers suddenly has none.'

Sherlock stands speechless as the automaton exit's the room.

'How's that indifference working out for you?' asks John, a smirk on his face.

'I must admit I am intrigued, but I am much too busy to deal with that now,' says Sherlock, gaining his composure, 'Now, I have a date with a severed head.'

Cyntax+ sits inside her time machine, nose in a book. Normally she would be busy at work trying to repair it, so she could set off on another adventure, but she is finding herself happy here. Her distaste for Humans normally repels her from Earth, but she has found a companion in Sherlock; something rare but cherishable. Like her past companions, something will happen to force their separation, usually her utter longing to travel. For now, though, she is satisfied. Every day is an adventure in 221B.

Cyntax's reading is disturbed by a knock on the door. She sets down the small, leather bound journal, making her way though the sea of clutter that makes up her floor. She is off put by this sudden happenstance. Her immobile ship is stored in what she thought was an abandon warehouse. She opens the door, expecting to find Sherlock. He is the world's best consulting detective. It wouldn't be difficult for him to find her. What she wasn't expecting, however, was a neatly tied box placed in front of her ship, and no one around to claim it. That is, of course, exactly what she got.

The automaton picks up the package, moving it around in her hands. It is decently heavy, but no suspiciously so. It's tightly packed; no shifting parts. It is wrapped in plain brown paper with a note on top.

[i]Deliver to Sherlock Holmes. I'll know if you don't

~M[/i]

'Who is M, and why can't they deliver this themselves?' Cyntax+ wonders aloud. She stares down at the mysterious package in her hands, debating whether or not to deliver it. In the end, she decides in favour of delivery, knowing that he is the only one qualified to identify it's contents.

'Look at this,' says Sherlock, pointing to the severed edge where the head once attached to the rest of the body.

John peers over the detectives shoulder, 'right, and what am I looking at?'

'Everything,' answers Sherlock with excitement, 'look at it, John. Really look.'

'Yep,' says John, after a few seconds, 'Definitely a severed head.'

'How blissful it must be,' mutters Sherlock, 'not being me. I expected more from you, Doctor.'

Sherlock goes over to the lab computer, searching for butcher shops surrounding Covent Garden.

'You think the killer works at a butcher shop?' asks John, leaning on the counter next to the computer.

'Yes. Obvious,' Sherlock reaches his hand in to the pocket of his coat. A frown crosses his face as he fails to find what he's looking for. He searches in the other pocket, with no success.

'What are you looking for?'

'My journal,' a look of concern crosses his face. He is not one to misplace things.

'You must have left it at the flat.'

'Must have,' he grabs a piece of paper in lue of his notebook, scribbling down the addresses.

'Since when are you one to write things down anyway? What happened to the whole "my mind is a hard drive" thing?'

Sherlock slides the paper in to his pocket, 'some information isn't worth storing.

'You reckon this Is how Fredrik was killed?' the two men are standing in the back room of the closest butcher shop on the list. John grimaces at the grotesque sight in front of him. Pigs hanging from meat hooks; skinned and blood-drained.

'I do,' answers Sherlock, 'the body was drained of blood before the head was removed. The same technique used on pigs before they are used for meat. Quite seamless actually. Place to store the blood and bones. Sell the meat as pork and no one knows the difference. He could have gone a life time undetected. So why turn himself in?'

'What it wasn't him?'

'What?'

'I mean, what if someone else put the head in the freezer?'

'You're saying he was framed?'

'Well, it's just a theory-'

'No,' Sherlock interrupts, 'that's brilliant!' the detective rushes out of the shop. John follows not far behind him, eager to part with the hanging pigs.

'Thanks,' he nods to the shop owner on his way out. He barely makes it in to the cab as his partner makes his speedy escape.

'Where are we going?' he asks, slightly out of breath.

'Your leg is acting up again.'

'Yeah, that, I'll be fine,' John winces as he shifts his weight to the other side. Damn Afghanistan.

'We're going back to Baker street,' Sherlock moves the conversation forward but still addresses his partner with a concerned gaze.

'Don't you want to find the guy who-'

'I know who did it.'

'Really?'

Sherlock doesn't answer.

John tries again, 'who?'

Sherlock looks in to his companions eyes, his stare hard and determined, 'Moriarty.'

John and Sherlock enter 221B, where they are greeted by shoe tracks leading up the stairs and the faintest aroma of motor oil.

'It was taken,' says Sherlock.

'John's eyebrows furrow, 'What was?'

'My journal.'

'How do you know?'

The detective smiles, 'because she's come to return it.'

'She?' asks John, but his partner is already advancing up the stairwell.

The smell of motor oil gets stronger at he enters the main floor of the flat. A plainly wrapped package sits on the desk. On top of it sits his journal and next to it a full mug of tea. All three items are void of fingerprints, outside his own. This doesn't alarm him. The messenger could have easily been wearing gloves. What stood out was the lack of a lip print on the mug. It was made just for him. The intruder could be only one person, and she wasn't really an intruder at all.

The steps creak as a new person enters the room.

'Plus,' he greets.

'Nope,' says John, 'just me.'

But Sherlock's eyes are not on his partner. They are fixed to the figure standing behind him. Cyntax+ stands inhumanly still at the base of the stairs, completely naked, 'Hello darling.'

'Yo0u took my journal,' states Sherlock. If he is effected by the fully exposed woman in front of him, it does not show in his voice. It does, however, show in his body language. His hands are flexed, fingers fully extended, a sign of discomfort. His cheek bones are more prominent than usual; he's clenching his jaw. Pupils dilated, feet pointed in, wait shifting, 'that's how you knew about the beach.'

He is too precious. Cyntax's goggle flashes, saving the image, 'guilty,' she utters, sauntering forward.

John catches a glimpse of her nude body and quickly looks away with a cough.

'I didn't mean to alarm you,' she states, 'I've spilled motor oil on my cloths. They're soaking in your tub. Hope you don't mind.'

'Ignore him,' says Sherlock, in reference to John's actions.

'I was talking to you,' she answers.

He puts on a look of confusion.

'Ten months I've lived with you,' she smirks, ' you think I haven't picked up a trick or two? I know a nervous man when I see one.'

'Could you wait upstairs?' asks Sherlock, quite abruptly. His hands are shaking. He can barely contain himself.

The robot's smirk turns to a grin, 'of course.'

'Still feeling indifferent?' John whispers after she's exited the room.

'Are you joking?!' Sherlock tries to keep his voice down but fails, 'she's beautiful! Did you see her?! I've never seen such complex machinery!' Sherlock spins around in giddy excitement, 'and using my science of deduction! Oh, I can't wait to get my hands on her!'

John hasn't seen a grin on Sherlock that big in a long time. He can't help but smile too as the detective runs upstairs, 'that poor woman,' he mutters with a shake of his head.

Sherlock walks in his bedroom to see that Cyntax+ is now clothed, 'you're wearing my robe,' he comments.

'Yeah,' she ties the blue sash around her waist, 'it was hanging on your door. I figured you'd want me to cover up a bit.'

Sherlock closes the door, 'actually, I prefer you take it off,' he stares at the robot in front of him. His robe hangs off of her, the hem pooling on the floor, the sleeves far exceeding the length of her arms, and the neck line just barely exposing her cleavage. The detective enjoys the sight so much, he debates telling her to leave it on.

Cyntax+ stands still for a while, soaking up the attention from Sherlock. Slowly, she pulls the sash, letting the robe fall to the floor. She reveals, once again, her patchwork body. Nearly her entire right side has been stripped of skin, revealing the metal underneath. Metal plates seem to be welded to her skin in various other places it has been torn. Sherlock takes her wrist in his hand, gently, 'may I?'

'Go ahead, but don't get too handsy. I'm fussy about my circuitry. Even a man as brilliant as you can't understand my mechanics. I don't want you breaking anything.'

The innuendo rolls right off of Sherlock. He is far too entranced with her build. His fingertips trace the intricate symbols etched in to her bronze plating, taking care to the storage slots that expose her titanium skeleton. His right hand grasps hers, turning her arm over, 'you are remarkable,' he takes to stroking her again, 'simply stunning.'

He moves down to her leg, his hands caressing her, his mouth so close she can feel his breath. In this moment, she is very thankful she doesn't require oxygen, 'you know how I feel about you, Sherlock.'

'Yes,' his answer is barely audible amidst his sighs of wonder.

'So why are you teasing me like this?'

'Teasing you?' Sherlock looks up at her with the most innocent eyes she has ever witnessed, 'I thought I was complimenting you.'

BAM! YOU JUST GOT PREGNANT!


	4. Chapter 4

The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#4

March.15.2012

John walks downstairs to an empty house. This is a rare occurrence. So rare, in fact, that this is the first time it's happens. Sherlock is always up and about, no matter what hour of the day. So consistently that John was convinced he never slept. He reassures himself the detective just went on a run somewhere. He does that all too often. John sticks a piece of bread in the toaster, waiting for it to brown. He jumps when he turns around to find Cyntax+ sitting at the kitchen table.

'Plus!' he exclaims, clutching his heart, 'you gave me quite the scare!'

'Sorry,' she says, but her smile reveals she's not sorry at all.

'How long have you been awake?' he asks, leaning on the counter across from her. She would offer him a seat at the table but, as always, it is cluttered with lab equipment.

'Ages.'

'Where's Sherlock?'

'Still asleep.'

'That's not like him.'

'Sleeping in?'

'Sleeping at all.'

Cyntax+ laughs, 'that's a bit of an exaggeration. He sleeps most every night. I watch him do it.'

'Oh,' says John, transferring his toast to a plate, 'I didn't realize you two were sharing a room.'

'I wouldn't really call it sharing.'

John coughs, 'tea?'

'No thank you. You really should do something for that cough.'

John smiles, not quite sure how to explain to her his simple English ways, 'suppose I should,' He gets up to boil water.

Cyntax+ nods with a warm smile, 'I worry about you. You Humans are so fragile. Especially you with those war injuries of yours.'

John struggles to retain an outward air of positivity when being reminded of his own mortality. The crunch of toast is the only noise in the house as he waits for what he swears is the slowest boiling pot of water ever. After a good two minutes, he gives in to the robot's stare.

'Sleep alright?'

'I didn't sleep at all.'

John chokes on his toast, 'Sherlock keep you up?'

'In a sense.'

'I didn't think that was possible… With Sherlock being Sherlock… And you being… Well…'

Cyntax catches on to his train of thought and begins to laugh, 'No. I mean, I can, but no. We didn't.'

Johns gaze falls to the floor, 'When you said you'd been awake for ages-'

'I meant centuries, John. I don't sleep.'

'Right,' he nods to the linoleum, feeling quite foolish. He stays there for a bit before popping his head back up, 'ever?'

'Well, I mean, I've shut down for extended periods of time, but I don't really consider that sleep.'

'So what did you two do then? I mean, if you don't mind me asking.'

'I let him look at me.'

'All night?'

'Yes. He asked a lot of questions. Then I told him if he was going to stare at me naked, he may as well return the favour. So he-'

'Yes, well, I think I can imagine the rest. So if you could just… Stop… Talking…'John trails off, his face redder than she's ever seen it. The water comes to a boil at last and he turns to take it off the heat.

'That's what I hate about the British,' says Cyntax, 'you're ashamed of the only thing that makes you beautiful.'

John stares at his tea, letting her words hang in the air.

'Mmm, tea sounds wonderful. I'll take a nice cup of English Breakfast,' says Sherlock, who appears to have been magically summoned to the doorway behind Cyntax. He is clad in only his pants.

John jumps, again, 'would you two stop that?!'

'Sorry,' Sherlock holds back laughter, showing that he really isn't.

'You're gonna kill me one of these days.'

The detective takes a seat next to Cyntax, 'morning,' his voice in monotone; he makes no physical contact. Cyntax eyes his exposed body, but makes no move toward him. There is no hand holding or kisses on the cheek. No normal signs of endearment that come the morning after. They address each other almost business like. They are the strangest couple John has ever seen. If this is what they're like around other people, how are they alone? He allows his mind to wonder for a bit. He very quickly shuns the thoughts when they become disturbingly graphic.

'Yes,' answers Cyntax. It is morning after all.

Sherlock laughs with a shake of his head, 'you're good at playing Human, but not good enough.'

'I take that as a compliment.'

John hands Sherlock his tea, 'yes, well, I've got… Paperwork…' the doctor exit's the room, only to call back seconds later, 'Sherlock, there's a package for you on the desk.'

'Yes, I know. I'll open it later,' he answers behind a sip of tea.

'You're gonna want to open it now.' Johns voice comes again.

Sherlock freezes, 'why's that?'

'Because there's only two people you know who go by "M" and I don't think it's from your brother.'

'Moriarty,' the word is barely audible as Sherlock swoops in to the other room.

Moriarty. Of course. Cyntax+ recognizes the name. He calls himself the "consulting criminal". He matches people in need with the perfect law-breaker. Mostly assassins, but people of all trades: theft, black-male, you name it. He had been behind the first case they worked on together and many after that.

John and Cyntax watch intently as the detective takes the box up in both hands. He examines it closely, inspecting it for things that go boom. When he is reassured of it's safety, he pulls on the string. He stares at the contents for only a moment before tossing it on the table with reckless abandon. John looks in to see a severed hand. Sherlock grabs his coat, rushing down the stairs.

'Where are you going?' John calls after him.

'Scotland Yard.'

'Don't you want to put cloths on?'

'No time.'

'Wait,' John calls again, 'don't you want to take this with you?'

'No need,' Sherlock pops his head around the corner of the stairwell, 'I bet you 40,000 quid that belongs to Fredrick Martin,' his quick footsteps proceed down the stairs and out the door.

John picks up the hand with care, bringing it over to the kitchen table which, quite unfortunately, also serves as their lab table. He picks up a bone saw, cutting off a small piece of the bone and placing it under the microscope. He scribbles down some things on a piece of paper, rummages around the table for a certain vile of something, drops a bit of it on to the bone, and marks that down as well.

'Can you hand me the autopsy report. It's on the desk.'

Cyntax+ hands him a folder labeled Fredrick Martin. John glances at the DNA test, adjusts his microscope, checks his notes, and looks back to the results.

'Well?' asks Cyntax.

John nods, 'it's a match.'

Sherlock stares at his mobile. After nearly an hour of searching he has finally found what he is fairly certain is Jim Moriarty's real number. It is the only common contact between his recently contracted criminals. Sherlock types in the numbers, praying to the universe it isn't Pieno's Pizzeria.

'Sherlock!' greets an overly-enthusiastic man on the other end, 'I was hoping you'd call.'

'I know,' Sherlock states with utter calmness.

'Of course you did,' answers Jim, spinning around in his desk chair.

'This line would be disconnected if you weren't'

'Very good, Sherlock. That's what I love about you,' the man laughs, 'so clever.'

'What is it you want with me?'

'We've been on so many blind dates,' there is another cenacle chuckle from the other end, 'I think it's time we meet.'

There is a faint click, a moment of silence, then a dial tone. Sherlock finds himself, once again, staring at his mobile. Several minutes pass without notice until the screen lights up. John's number illuminates the display, along with a text that reads, "Hand is a match." Sherlock ignores it. Of course it's a match. Moriarty planned all of this.

Another stretch of time passes before he is interrupted by another text from John. Two ½ hours, judging by the time stamps. It says, "Didn't get a reply. Everything alright?"

Sherlock responds quite simply with "Mind palace." and he goes back to constructing a game plan. He has already come up with several but all of them have flaws. This man is everywhere and anywhere. There is no escape. The detectives rises from his stool. He dials John's as he exit's the building. Watson picks up on the second ring.

'Sherlock,' he greets, 'where the bloody hell have you been? You've been gone for hours.'

'That's not important,' answers Sherlock, 'I want you to lock all the doors and windows. Whatever you do, do not leave the flat. I want you to take Ms. Hudson and stay on the main floor. Do not let Plus out of your sight. She will protect you. Do not answer your phone. Even if it's my number. Do not pick up. Do you understand?'

There is a long moment of silence.

'Do you understand?'

'Yes,' John answers finally, 'Sherlock, are you in danger?'

'I don't know,' Sherlock ends the call before turning off his mobile and sliding it in his pocket. Anticipating being located, Sherlock does his captors a favour by walking at a leisurely pace on a main road. He gets many stares and murmurs for his indecency but honestly doesn't care.

Just as speculated, a black car with tinted windows slows to a stop at the curb next to him. A man in dark shades pokes out the passenger side window, 'get in, Mr. Holmes.'

The detective obeys, stepping in to the back seat.

He is not surprised to find an empty back seat. Surely meeting the man who claims to be his ultimate foe can not be so simple. Unfortunate for the man in question, Sherlock knows the streets of London like his own veins. Though he must know this. He seems to know everything else about the detective. As proven by his talent of getting under his skin.

Sherlock spends the ride in silent distain. A mere year ago, the thought of a man out-witting him was laughable. Now here he sits with a one-way ticket to his fate and no plan of escape. What unholy power has brought this great detective to his knees? Surely this can not be the workings of single man.

The frightening truth is that this is the workings of a single man. Jim Moriarty is the most powerful person on this planet and that is genuinely terrifying. Sherlock masks his fear with an aloof attitude as he enters the building alone. The two men he arrived with attempted to escort him in but got a little too physical for his taste. They now lay motionless on the gravel. People should really take threats more seriously. Especially from a man who always follows through.

Sherlock's echoing footsteps resound throughout the large corridor of what appears to be a condemned factory building. Dusty conveyer belts line the out rim of the room. A very business-like man stands at the end of the hall, next to what looks like a metal coffin. He licks his lips at the oncoming man. His bare skin peeking out between the unbuttoned opening of his trench coat. Delicious.

'Interesting choice of location,' notes Sherlock, approaching the man he assumes is Moriarty.

'Interesting choice of clothing,' he replies. The man's giddy tone validates his identity.

'Yes, well, I wasn't planning on meeting anyone.'

'I'm sure you look delightful in a tux,' Jim's eyes wonder down Sherlock's body, 'though I think I like you this way.'

'Have you just come to flirt, Jim?'

'Oh, I wish. I really do,' the man's eyes grow sad for only a second before he regains his composure, 'I have plans, Sherlock. Big plans. It's been fun, this little game we've been playing, but I'm afraid that it has to end. I can't have you in the way anymore. You understand.'

Sherlock takes another look around the room, 'not really a desirable place to die, is it?' he speaks with up most calmness.

Moriarty shakes his head, 'Don't be silly, Sherlock. I'm not going to kill you,' he sets a hand on the metal coffin, 'I'm going to freeze you. When you wake up and see the hell I've raised. Well, then you just might kill yourself. Do me a favour and make it something flashy. Like jumping off a building.'

Sherlock whips his gun out of his pocket, cocking it, and aiming it directly at the other man's heart, in one swift motion, 'and what if I kill you now?'

The man shrugs, 'If you think it will help. Though I can guarantee you'll never see your friends again. O have five highly trained snipers positioned outside of your house right now. If you as much as touch me, they're dead.'

'And if I come quietly?'

'I'll let them live.'

'How can I trust you?'

'Well, you can't. You have two choices. Kill me and go home to an empty house and my legacy still continues through my network, or sacrifice yourself for the possibility that they might be spared. Choose wisely.'

The detective lowers his gun, slowly, 'okay.'

Moriarty grins, 'good boy.'

There is a small beep as a button is pressed and the lid of the Criotube slides open. Comes mist comes rolling over the sides. Sherlock puts his gun back in his pocket, removing his coat. He hands it to Jim, 'I want Plus to have this.'

'How sweet,' says Jim, grabbing the coat, 'should I bring her flowers, or is that too much?'

'Just give it to her. Please.'

Moriarty nods, 'good night Mr. Holmes.'

The detective lays down inside the metal chamber, already beginning to loose feeling in his limbs. The lid of the machine slides closed as he utters his last words:

'Forgive me.'


	5. Chapter 5

The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#5

March.15.2012

A smile creeps on to Jim Moriarty's face. He snaps his fingers, summoning his henchmen. No one comes.

'Boys!'

Still nothing.

Moriarty sighs in exasperation. His footsteps echo as he stomps out to the front lot. He sees his two men passed out on the gravel. He let's out a groan, 'that's Sherlock. Always complicating things,' he pulls out his mobile, dialing Sebastian.

'Mother Hen, come in Mother Hen… No, I'm Daddy Rooster… Oh really? That's not what you said last night… That's not why I'm calling. I need two guys down here stat… What do you mean "What happened to the other two?" Just send me the men!.. Really?.. You naughty boy… Mmm, I'd like that… I can't, I'm working… yes, as soon as I get home. I promise…Yes, I'll bring the handcuffs… Love you too. Bye bye.'

Jim ends the call, sliding the phone in to his pocket. He steps indoors, letting his mind escape to thoughts of his boyfriend. He stands next to the Criotube, keeping watch over it. There is no way of escape, but every precaution must be taken when dealing with Sherlock Holmes.

Several minutes pass before the sound of tires is heard pulling in to the driveway. Moriarty goes to greet his new assistants. He recognizes the pair as Sid and Dan. Two of the best thieves England has ever known. Sid, the taller of the two, stares questioningly at the unconscious men on the ground.

'Put these men in the back seat,' Moriarty swats in their general direction.

The duo does as they are instructed, storing the limp bodies inside the black Volkswagen.

'There's a shovel in the boot of the Rolls. Grab it and follow me.'

Dan obliges, retrieving the shovel. The three men make their way around the back of the building to find several miles of open country.

'Go about 30 meters and start digging.'

'Who is it this time?' asks Dan.

'Sherlock Holmes,' answers Jim with a grin.

'I gotta give it to you, boss. I didn't think you had it in you.'

Moriarty's eyes turn sharp, 'I'd watch what I say if I were you.'

'I just thought you'd get a shag first. That's all.'

'Don't you have a grave to dig?'

'Yes, sir,' Dan gives a little salute before tromping off.

Jim follows his butt with his eyes, 'he must be very good in bed.'

Sid laughs, 'no, we're not together.'

'Then why the hell do you keep him around?'

'I ask myself that every day.'

Wood pieces clatter to the floor as Cyntax+ shoves the chess board off the table.

'Oh dear!' exclaims Ms. Hudson, clutching her heart.

'Ay now, don't be a sore loser,' says John, placing a hand on her shoulder. The look in his eyes says, "Please, the old woman's been through enough."

Cyntax+ shrugs him off, 'My intellect far exceeds this menial game,' she begins to pace the room, her fists clenched at her sides. After twelve rounds about the room, she pulls her hammer from it's storage in her leg. It swings back and forth as she walks.

'I know you're worried about him,' John sooths, 'but we just need to keep calm and wait.'

'Since when do you wait, John? I've seen how you act around him, how protective you are. He's your best mate and you just want to sit here and play chess while we wait for him to die! Time is changing, John. I can feel it. Something bad is happening and I need to go set it right.'

'Plus, you don't know what we're dealing with.'

'Professor James Moriarty. Born on October 19th 1986. Studied criminal psychology at Marmoth University and taught it there for 12 years until he quit to peruse other things. AKA a crime network rooted in London, dealing criminals all over the planet. He has access to everyone and everything. Said to be the most dangerous man that ever lived,' Cyntax+ puts away her hammer, un-holstering her pistol, 'you're not the only one in the history books, John. I think I know exactly what I'm dealing with.'

John opens his mouth to protest but he is quickly cut off by a loud knock at the door. Cyntax+ looks out the window to see a suited man standing on the stair, 'knock knock,' he calls, 'I know you're in there.'

She cocks her pistol, 'time to show this wanker who's boss. Stay here,' the android makes her way down the wooden stairwell. She opens the door only enough for her to train her gun on the man she can only assume is Moriarty, 'what the hell do you want?'

Jim smiles, 'careful. I've got five trained gunman that are very protective of their boss. Wouldn't want to set them off, now would we?' He gives a little swish of his finger toward the rooftops where Cyntax+ can now spot at least two. She lowers her gun, swinging the door open so her entire body is visible.

'That wasn't so hard, was it?'

The automaton glares at him, 'where is he?'

Moriarty laughs, 'see, I'm not quite sure. But he did want me to bring you this,' he lifts up the black trench coat resting in his arms. The robot clenches the woolen fabric in her metal fingers.

'You son of a bitch!' Cyntax+ discards the jacket, a metal rod extending in her grasp. She wields the weapon in both hands, ready to swing.

Moriarty stands unfazed, 'Do it. I dare you. One swing and you're doctor is dead. Two and the old lady goes with him. That's two more out of my hair, so go ahead. Hit me.'

Cyntax+ stares at him, unmoving.

'That's what I thought,' he tips his head, turning on his heels to face the street.

'I will kill you,' she calls after him.

Jim gallops down the steps, 'sounds like a date.'

'This isn't over!' she calls in a weak attempt to convince him she's serious.

'Oh no,' Jim laughs, 'it's only begun.'

March.27.2012

John wakes with a start. He looks around the room to see what disturbed him. A hammer is lodged in to the wall only centimeters from his headboard. A hole resides in the opposite wall where the projectile object came hurling through it. The man rises from his bed, throwing on his robe in frustration.

'Plus!' he calls out. She is the only that the would (or could) do this.

'Yes?' her face appears on the other side of the gap.

'Is there a reason you've thrown a hammer at my head?'

'I didn't feel like moving.'

John is getting increasingly annoyed, 'what is it, Plus?'

'I need to borrow your laptop.'

'It's on the desk,' grumbles Watson, turning back toward his bed.

'Are you alright?'

The doctor pauses to look back at her, 'why do you ask?'

'You had a bad dream.'

'How do you know?'

'You talk in your sleep.'

'Yeah? No one's ever mentioned that to me before,' he contemplates this for a moment, 'what did I say?'

'You mentioned Sherlock.'

John's eyes avert to the floor, 'Yeah, well.'

'You don't usually.'

His caramel eyes flicker back to the hole where Cyntax's face peeks though, 'Pardon?'

'Talk in your sleep,' she clarifies, 'just since- well…' Cyntax+ can't quite come up with a gentle way to put it but John knows she mean's Sherlock's disappearance.

'Yes, well, we all cope differently.'

'Actually, nightmares are a sign that you're not coping at all.'

John sighs, 'Plus, it is 2:00. You may not require sleep, but I do, so if you'll excuse me,' the doctor turns once more toward his bed. This time, Cyntax lets him go.

The robot tests her new magnetic technology on her hammer. She extends her hand and turns on the magnetic field. Her hammer comes flying back, along with several other metallic objects in the direct line of magnetic attraction. She turns off the field, but not before her hammer smashes another hole in the wall. The other objects clatter to the floor, sparing further damage. John pulls his gun out from underneath his pillow, pointing it at the wall whilst shoving the pillow in his face.

'Sorry,' Cyntax+ calls to him, 'still need to work out the kinks. I'll fix this wall come morning. I promise.'

A muffled grunt comes from the pillow as his arm goes limp, sending the revolver to bounce on to the mattress.

Cyntax+ has been tinkering a lot lately. She has spent all of her time doing so. She took solace in her projects on the day of Sherlock's disappearance and has been scarce ever since. This is only the seconds time John has seen her in the past twelve days. He would have made a bigger deal of it if he weren't so desperate for sleep. He cherishes the little unconsciousness he can achieve. Even when he overcomes his Ansonia, the sleep is far from fulfilling. First, flashbacks from the war. Now, Sherlock's death. The cause is different night to night, but the image of his vacant eyes and motionless body is ever present in his mind.

The doctor removes the pillow from his face, sighing at the ceiling. He begins to accept that sleep is merely an unfulfilled desire. As he stares wistfully at the wall in front of him, he wonders how long Plus had been standing in Sherlock's room. Does she visit every night? She did say that his sleep talking didn't start until Sherlock's disappearance. Has she been here all along, watching over him? Waiting for Sherlock to return? Keeping his room spotless so that he doesn't have to worry when he comes back? This makes him wonder what kind of relationship they really had. The more he thinks, the more he realizes how little he knows about the people he surrounds himself with.

Meanwhile, down on the main level of the apartment, Cyntax+ logs in to John's laptop. When she finds what she's looking for, she scribbles some notes in a small leather-bound journal, before deleting the web history, and shutting down the computer. She is startled to find John lurking behind her in the darkness.

'I thought you were sleeping,' she greets, plainly. Now able to see her in full, John notices that she is wearing Sherlock's coat. It is much too large on her feminine frame. The bottom almost nearly reaches the floor. The sleeves are pushed up past her elbows to keep the fabric from sliding over her hands.

'Couldn't find the will,' John answers. There is a moment of silence before he speaks again, 'let's skip the "how long have you been standing there?" "Long enough" rubbish, and get to the part where you tell me what's going on.'

The robot reaches in to her pocket and pulls out an iPhone, 'I found this.'

'Sherlock's mobile?'

'That's what I thought at first. Then I looked at the contents. It belonged to Jeff Morrison. I looked at every single file on this thing. There was nothing conspicuous, apart from some Asian porn. That's when I realized that this isn't the phone Sherlock wanted me to find.'

'You tracked his mobile?'

at

'Exactly. He made a call to you outside of Scotland Yard. Then once again all the way out in Crawly. This call you did not answer per instruction. He wasn't calling to talk to you, he was calling to tell you where he was. Once Jeff discovered it wasn't his phone, the line was terminated, but not before making a call from this location,' Cyntax+ holds up the notebook where she scrawled the address.

'Brilliant,' Watson beams.

'Yes, well, there' not much we can do at this hour. You head on back to bed. I'll be back in a few hours to investigate,' she walks past John to the stairwell but he turns to call after her.

'Please stay. Just for the night… It's a bit lonely here by myself.'

'You have Ms. Hudson,' answers Cyntax, but she doesn't move.

'Please. Just for the night.'

A smile crosses her lips. She is happy to know he needs company just as bad as she does,' just for the night,' the robot turns to face her friend, taking care that there are no traces of the smile left on her face. Despite her stoic appearance, John knows she is just as happy as he is.

He wraps his arms around her, 'good to have you back.'

Plus returns the hug. The silent gesture speaks louder than words. This is the only place she has ever called home and she is happy to be back.

John and Cyntax arrive at an abandon warehouse after over an hour of driving, 'are you sure this is the right place?' questions the blonde.

'Positive,' the android replies, referencing the map on Jeff's mobile. Cyntax+ continues in to the building, not waiting on her companion as he pays the driver. Watson jogs after her, not too keen on being left behind. It reminds him too much of his previous mystery-solving partner.

'What exactly are we looking for?'

'Anything out of place,' says Cyntax, inspecting the rubble.

'I'm a bit rubbish at this,' John admits after several minutes with no results, 'I'm not Sherlock. I can't _observe_ the way he does.'

'You can do this,' Cyntax+ sets a hand on his shoulder and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

His face instantly turns red, 'Plus…' he turns to face her, her hand still resting on his shoulder.

'We're going to find him,' she assures.

'I know,' he murmers in reply. He is staring at her lips. There is something about lonelyness that makes you realize the beauty in people, John is suddenly filled with the utter longing to be loved. It is not until now he has realized how empty he feels. He brings his lips to hers with a new found hunger. Cyntax+ welcomes him, her arms snaking around his waist. John finds her to be exotic and new, having never snogged someone without a tongue before. Their lips move together in passion and lust.

Cyntax+ pulls away to remove his jacket, 'this is wrong,' he protests.

'I know,' Cyntax grins, unbuttoning his shirt.

John's hands fly to hers, 'I'm serious. We need to stop.'

'Okay,' she pulls away, leaning down to pick up his jacket. In doing so, she notices footprints on the ground. They are tracked in soil, not the gravel that surrounds the building. , 'look at this,' she says to Watson. John is still in the process of buttoning his shirt when Cyntax demands his attention. He leans down to examine the prints.

'So? Those could belong to anyone.'

'No, look. They're tracked in dirt. Whoever walked here came from somewhere else. Somewhere with dirt.'

John looks around, 'there are two sets of tracks with dirt. One wearing dress shoes, the other casual.'

'Moriarty and one of his cronies.'

'How do you know?'

'I just have a feeling,' her eyes trail the footprints out of the building, 'let's go.'

John follows the robot as she exit's the factory. They come to the end of the trail as they are greeted by perpetual fields.

'Now what?'

'We split up, cover more ground.'

The doctor sighs, 'Alright. I'll take the left. You go right.'

'Aye captain,' Cyntax gives a very serious nod before turning on her heels.

So they set off in the separate directions, two solgiers back in action, every hour the sun getting lower. Finally, in the last shreds of daylight, John discovers a fresh mound of dirt.

'Plus!'

She runs up behind him, less than a minute later. She may weigh 300 pounds, but she can stil outrun any Human. She stops dead at the sight of the grave. A wooden plank is the only marker. _SH has been sloppily carved in to it._

_John does nothing but stare for a long time. Eventually, tears begin streaming down his face; harder and harder until his entire body begins to shake. Cyntax+ can do nothing but watch as he drops to his knees. They stand in silence, John weeping, and Cyntax wishing she could, late in to the darkness._

_March. 28. 2012_

_John is in his bed when he awakes. A dark shadow looms over him. The silloette of Sherlock's trench coat is the only shape in the blindling sunrise. In a mornig haze, he is convinced it is Sherlock's spirit, cometo say goodbye. A moment for his eyes to adjust reveals Cyntax, standing watch as he sleeps._

'_Ah, you're awake,' says Plus, turning to face him._

_John looks around, 'How did I get here?'_

'_I carried you.'_

'_A the way from Crawly?'_

'_Yes.'_

'_You could have called a cab.'_

'_I know,' she answers with a smile, 'I didn't want to risk waking you,' Cyntax sits down next to him on the bed. John leans forward, throwing his arms around her. They sit this way for a long while; embracing each other, not in lust, but in endearment and comfort._

'_We need to tell Mycroft,' says John._

'_I'll go. You stay and take care of yourself.'_

'_We'll go together. He knows me.'_

'_I think it's better if I go alone. Sherlock is his only brother, John. He'll want to hear it from someone who can give it to him strait. Seeing you will only make it harder. Imagine if something happened to your sister, would you want her best friend in here blubbering or would you want it clean and simple?'_

_John pulls back with a sniff, 'I suppose you're right. I'll stay here and hold down the fort. I suppose now is a good a time as ever to tell Ms. Hudson.'_

'_Yes, I think that's best,' Cyntax+ gives him a kiss on the forehead before exiting the room. She steps out on to the London streets. As she walks, she dial's Mycroft's number on the mobile she stole from Jeff Morrison. _

_His secretary picks up, 'yes, I'd like to make an appointment with Mycroft Holmes… As soon as he's available… I'm sorry, did I say, "as soon as he's available"? I meant now… It's highly urgent. It's about Sherlock.'_

_Cyntax+ enters Myroft's office, to find a man nose-deep in paperwork. It is obvious her presence was unexpected. Mycroft is far to dignified of a man to let people see him busy. _

_He lifts his head at the sound of the door, 'yes, come in,' the man steps out from behind the desk, smoothing his suit and wiping his mouth. The smallest bit of chocolate frosting smudges on his sleeve. Cyntax's goggle flashes. She knew he was hiding cake under that book._

'_You mustn't mind the state of my office. It's been a busy week,' says Mycroft, straitening his tie, 'Now tell me, what's Sherlock done this time?'_

'_He's dead.'_

_Mycroft turn his back to her, taking a long time to breath._

'_How?' he speaks, finally._

'_I'm not sure,' answers Cyntax, 'but I can tell you who.'_

_Mycroft turns to her, eyes bloodshot and pleading, 'who?' he whispers. _

'_John Watson.'_


	6. Chapter 6

The Wrath of CyntaxA Sherlock/Star Trek/OC crossoverChapter#6

March.28.2012

John goes about his morning routine, moving sluggishly. He draws out every menial task, postponing the unavoidable obligation of approaching Ms. Hudson. He stays in the shower until the water runs cold. Eventually, he turn off the taps and rests his head on the wall in front of him. His tears puddle on the already dampened floor. After his crying dies down, he takes the time to dress himself. Now clothed, he heads downstairs, He makes toast, though he knows he won't be able to eat it. He makes tea, but can't bare to drink it. The house is so empty; the world so lost. He wishes Sherlock we back, beating him to a bloody pulp. Because at least that would hurt less than this; at least he would be here. No pain he has ever felt can compare to the loss of his companion.

After hours of wallowing in misery, John finally builds up the will to approach Ms. Hudson. He makes his way downstairs to 221A. He reaches her door when he hears a knock behind him. The doctor turn to the sound, expecting Cyntax left her key. He opens the door to reveal Lestrade, flanked by two other officers.

'John Watson, you are being arrested for the murder of Sherlock Holmes,' says Lestrade. One of the other men comes behind him, cuffing his hands together, 'I trust you know your rights.

Watson doesn't understand what's happening at first. When they hall him out to the curb, it clicks, 'Wait! Sherlock was my best mate! I'd never kill him! Lestrade! Uncuff me, for Christ's sake! This isn't funny!'

John catches a glimpse at Cyntax from the corner of his eye. He is suddenly filled with relief, 'Plus! Tell them what happened! Tell them I didn't kill Sherlock!'

She stares at him, unmoving. Something is different about her. She is dressed in all black underneath Sherlock's trench coat. A cigarette rests in her hand. Her mix-matched photoreceptors have lost their warmth. This is a Cyntax he has never seen.

'You can't let them do this to me!' he pleads.

She takes a drag of her cigarette, blowing the smoke in his face. The companion he once knew is gone. All he can do is feel betrayed as they escort him in to the police car. Cyntax+ watches with distant eyes as they drive away.

One of the officers approaches Cyntax, 'that's some wicked face paint. Is that one of those Steam Punk things?'

The robot pulls out a large knife, casually pointing it at the man, 'it's not face paint. It's my scull. Do you want to know what it feels like to have your skin torn from your body?'

'Ma'am, you are threatening a police officer. Please put down your weapon before I take arms.'

'Awful sorry,' says Cyntax, putting her knife away. She can't even muster the energy to fake a smile, 'I'm having a dreadful day.'

Jeff Morison sits in his flat, watching telly with a carton of takeout. His dinner is rudely interrupted by knocking at the door. He looks through the scope to see a young woman with multi-colored hair and some sort of face paint. He opens the door, ' what do you want?'

'I found your phone,' she says, handing it to him.

'I know who you are,' he says, taking it from her.

'Good,' she answers, pulling out her gun, 'that'll make this easier.'

Jeff raises his hands, baking in to his apartment. Cyntax follows, gun trained on him. The door closes, locking automatically. Jeff swallows hard, knowing he can't call for help.

'Where is Moriarty?'

'I don't know. I-'

'You're far too loyal,' says Cyntax, cocking her pistol, 'I'm not.'

'He lives in Saint Albans!' cries the man, 'I don't know the exact address. He lives up in the hills on a dirt road.'

'Thanks sweetheart,' Cyntax pulls the trigger, sending a bullet in to his heart. It's a been a while since fresh blood has stained her skin. It feels good. The man collapses on the floor and Cyntax+ is suddenly filled with the rush of war. She almost forgot how much of a thrill killing brings her. After taking a moment to soak in the glory, she makes a brake for the stairs. The robot makes her escape via rooftop and continues this way as long as she can. The police will be on her trail and she can not risk getting caught.

James Moriarty arrives home, parking the Rolls in the driveway. His suede shoes patter on the concrete as he enters his not-so-humble abode. He walks through the spacious floor plan, making his way downstairs to what he refers to as his "command centre"; it is the hub of crime network. The level is fit with weapons, torture champers, interrogation rooms, and a wall of monitors displaying CCTV, global news, social media, and government archives.

Sebastian Moran sits in Interrogation room B, eagerly awaiting his lover. Joust on cue, Moriarty steps in, dangling a pair of handcuffs, 'honey, I'm home.' Sebastian rises from the metal chair, wrapping his arms around Jim.

'You smell like cheap liquor and body glitter,' he whispers to his lover, 'have you been cheating on me again?'

'You caught me,' Jim whispers back.

'Was he cute?'

'Delectable.'

Sebastian presses his lips to Jim's. They kiss, softly as first, but getting progressively more passionate. Jim presses Sebastian down in to the chair, sitting on his lap. They snog for a while more before Moriarty handcuffs the other man to the chair. He loosens Sebastian's tie, but keeps it on as he unbuttons his shirt. Jim uses the tie to pull his lover in for another kiss. He steps off of Sebastian's lap, his lips trailing down the other man's chest until he reaches the band of his trousers. His fingers linger on the closure, tempting to unbutton it.

Suddenly, the door bursts open. Cyntax's goggle flashes, 'see, this is why books need pictures.'

Jim turns around to face the robot, smoothing out his suit and trying his best to overcome the half-naked man behind him. Her gun is locked and loaded, trained directly at his heart.

'You're quite clever, aren't you?' says Moriarty, 'you're worth more credit than Sherlock ever gave you.'

'Don't you dare talk to me about Sherlock!'

'Not coping very well, are we? I see you got a new outfit. You look nice in black.'

In the blink of an eyes, Cyntax+ switches targets, shooting a bullet though Sebastian's skull, 'let's see how you cope, you bloody sod!'

'Shame,' utters Jim, wiping the blood off of his face, 'I liked that one. Very good with his mouth.'

'If I had more restraint, I would make you suffer. Lucky for you, I don't, so I'm gonna makes this quick,' Cyntax+ pulls her trigger again, hitting Moriarty in the chest. It goes directly in to his heart, killing him almost instantly. His body falls limp on the concrete. Still full of rage and lust for vengeance, Cyntax+ empties her gun, shooting three more bullets in to his already limp body. Two in the chest and one in the head. Jim Moriarty lay on the floor, his blood pooling with that of his lover; their eyes glazed over and staring to the ceiling.

Cyntax+ stares at the scene, in taking every detail, making every deduction, envisioning how quickly it would take Sherlock to figure out it was her. Considering the massive overkill on Jim, not long. It's funny how stories take to long to write, but end so abruptly. Death's like that. It just kind of happens. There isn't this huge dramatic thing. It's just death. This sort of thing used to make her happy. Now she realizes how empty her happiness has been. There is no fulfillment in death. There is a temporary feeling of satisfaction, but that eventually wares off and all you're left with is a bunch of bodies.

Feeling hollow, Cyntax+ holsters her weapon. She takes care in shutting down all the monitors, computers, and scheduled broadcasts.

'You can check yourself for anything I may have missed,' says Cxyntax to Mycroft, 'I'm pretty sure I saw some filing cabinets that might interest you.'

'Speaking of files,' says Mycroft, setting down an over-stuffed folder, 'I found yours. Quite impressive. You've got crimes of every kind dating back to the beginning of law enforcement.'

Cyntax grins, 'yes, sir, I do.'

'This will go on record, but since you've done this country a better service than crime, I suppose I can overlook the arrest. I recommend you leave as soon as possible and as far away as possible. May that be time or space.'

Cyntax nods, 'I will do… Can I speak to John first? I'd hate to leave on bad terms.'

'Do what you need to do,' says Mycroft, dismissively.

'He's got followers, Moriarty. They'll try and pick up where he let off, so you… You be careful.'

The man smiles, 'you have my word.'

'Goodbye Mycroft.'

'Goodbye Ms. Cyntax.'

'Thank you,' she says, beginning to exit the room, 'for everything.'

'Anything for a friend of Sherlock,' says Mycroft, closing the door behind her.

Their relationship was never healthy, Sherlock and Mycroft, but they loved each other. At least that's what Mycroft hoped. Sherlock was always very independent; constantly shrugging off his over-protective older brother. And was he when Sherlock died? In his office eating cake. Even if it wasn't his fault, Mycroft will always blame himself for the death of his younger brother.

March. 29. 2012

Two armed guards stand outside 221B when Cyntax arrives, 'relax boys,' says the robot to the bobbies when they tense up at her incoming stride, 'I live here.'

They let her pass and she makes her way inside. John is sitting on the couch with a mug of tea when Cyntax finds him. His eyes flicker to her briefly before refocusing out the window.

'They told me what you did,' says John, still not making eye contact, 'you faked evidence to keep me safe,' he takes a drink of tea, 'you could have at least told me first.'

'No,' Plus argues, 'it would have been too risky. I couldn't tell anyone until I knew it was safe for you to leave.'

'Thank you,' John's eyes fall to his tea.

'I have to go,' says Cyntax.

'Okay. When will you be back?'

The robot sighs, taking a seat next to John.

'You're not coming back,' his eyes finally look up to meet hers, 'are you?'

'No,' now Cyntax is the one who can't bare to make eye contact.

'I always knew the day would come,' says John, taking her hand in his, 'but you sure picked a crap time.'

The robot smiles, 'Yeah. I was never any good at that.'

'I wasn't sure about you at first,' John confesses, 'but I've grown quite fond of you.'

'You could always come with me,' she offers.

John contemplates this for a moment before answering, 'I belong here, on Earth, not out exploring the unknown. Thank you for the offer, but this doctor's seen all the adventure he needs.'

Cyntax leans in so they can kiss on last time. There lips lingers, John eyes too afraid to open again. When they finally do, he is alone. He watched her walk away, knowing she would never return. Yet every night, he looks to the sky, wishing she would.


	7. John

Years passed.

Decades, really.

John never got over it. He never left Baker Street. When a woman named Mary asked him for his number in a quiet pub, he smiled and declined with the consummate grace that marked every interaction between John Watson and the rest of humanity.

On the way home from that meeting, he reminisced, as he so often did, about the one who'd fallen. For two perfect years, perhaps his greatest asset to the world's only consulting detective had been John's ability to intervene between Sherlock and the world he inhabited, full of those irritating, distracting, dull creatures known as other people.

Two years. John looked up at the night sky, and sighed, thinking about planets and stars; how Cyntax was traveling them, and he was here. He'd spent three years after she left, waiting for her to return; had spent that fourth year sodding drunk. Pathetic, just a bit. Took him three damn years to finally admit that the girl was never coming home; neither was the detective. Took most of that fourth for him to be able to say the words out loud.

I loved you.

I loved you.

_I loved you._

He'd mourned Sherlock longer than he'd known the bloody prat, and if that wasn't the mark of a soulmate, of the kind of friendship and love that lasts your whole life, he didn't know what else could be. It was a bit of hell, really, to live that life alone when the person you were supposed to spend it with was gone. Then, the only person that could possibly you together decides to leave too. But John managed; he always did, always had. John Watson could survive damn near anything. He stayed in their flat. He started talking to his old friends again. He found better work as a doctor, and he settled into his long wait, his long quiet patience set to this one task. His life was full, and good. He walked around with a Sherlock-shaped hole in his chest, and everyone he met knew it, but the edges knit together over time.

Those next two decades, he smiled. He laughed. He fed ducks in the park. He had tea with Mrs. Hudson, and eventually, he forgave the world. Sherlock would have hated the sentimentality of it all, John was sure; he could hear the commentary any time he cared to, which was often. John almost always wore a little half-smile as he faded into the background of others' social interactions, thinking to himself of what Sherlock would say. Hearing a rich, deep voice that only existed in his mind and holding back his smile at the cutting remarks, the brilliant deductions, the wry comments. He talked to Sherlock in his head frequently – not constantly, not quite, but at least once a day. Sometimes just with a nod of acknowledgement as he went to bed, and sometimes a whole day spent talking to his mad genius and feeling soothed at the remembered, imagined, voice speaking back to him.

It wasn't a bad life. Not at all.

It ended when John was sixty-four. Routine, normal, a heart attack, such an ordinary and dull method of passing on. Sherlock would have been immensely displeased at John having the audacity to die so boringly. That was his last thought before he blinked, and knew, knew in the bones he didn't have any more, knew in his soul, because that's all he had left, that he was dead.

He was dead, and standing at a door, and there was Sherlock. Standing there in the doorway, looking as regal and mysterious as he ever had.

John smiled, a particular fond, loving smile the world hadn't seen from him in two and a half decades, 'You waited.'

Sherlock's nose wrinkled a little. _Obvious. _But his eyes were soft, and his mouth smiled, 'Of course,' The voice had never been quite right in his head, but it was vibrant now. Here. Real. Velvet undertones and night itself given voice, and part of John eased back into place that hadn't been whole since before that last phone call. He felt peace at last.

John tilted his head, asking, 'ready?'

'When you are.'

John opened the door, their hands intertwining, and they passed into the light together. The ghost of John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes: the man that once was.


	8. Sherlock

Sherlock awoke, but not to the world he once knew. He was reborn in to the heart of World War III; the heart of a raging hell.

He traveled to Canada in search of the only familiarity he could muster. He traveled the trampled lands, digging through the rubble in search of the war machine he met so many years ago. Unable to locate her, he took a job with a group of scientists working on advanced mechanics and war machinery. He had seen enough of Cyntax to know the basics of her engineering. He worked for years, going though endless drafts; every machine sub-par, none living up to his expectations.

He worked with two other scientists: Dr, Reed Cunningham, and Dr. John Yung. Together, they redefined the term Cyborg, creating bio-technology; robots powered by Human hearts. They had the appearance of Humans but the durability of robots. They names them Cybots. Each is unique; programmed with a different skill. Finally in the year 1597, the perfect robot was born. CybotGX97 model number

Deep in Montreal there is a top secret lab. There reside two scientists: Dr. Reed Cunningham, and Dr. John Yung. They are producing cyborgs. They look and operate like humans but have the strength and durability of robots. They have different purposes, each one unique from the next. They are hard at work on the newest model. CyborgGX97_014.

Cyntax+.

When her photoreceptors flickered on to stare up at her creators, there was no recognition in her mind; no emotion. Programmed to kill, programmed to engineer; emotionless.

After she was deployed, Sherlock lost the will to peruse robotics. Having abandoned his job, he was hunted by the US government. They were occupying Canada at the time and were the ones who had commissioned his weapons. He fled for some time but eventually gave in to his hunters. He had been in the war too long. It started to ware on him. He started to see why Cyntax+ was discussed by the Human race. He began to feel that way. So he surrendered.

They experimented on him, using a new genetic enhancing serum, that was supposed to make him superior to the rest of Humanity. They called him Khan; an ancient word meaning _war hero_. And that's what he became. For many years he vanquished. With every passing day, his crew grew larger, his body count higher, and his heart colder.

His soldiers pretended not to see when he hurled himself off of buildings. Every day, he tried to desperately to escape the hell he was forced to endure. Every day he woke up to do it again.

As blood pooled in the streets and stained with tattered uniforms of the genetically altered soldiers, fighting for one government wasn't enough. They became tainted with bloodlust, turning on their government, but never each other. United, they vowed to slay any and all who crossed their path despite country of origin.

Seen as a threat, the crew was perused and one by one sent to the same fate, the only thing that could subdue them. Criotube. Khan, being the strongest and most intelligent, was the last to go.

The war raged on, the Human race dying out and rising again like a Phoenix from the ashes. Centuries passed, all along Khan and his crew sleeping beneath the earth.

Until they were discovered.


	9. Update

Thank you very much to my lovely readers! I am going to leave it at that delicious cliff hanger for now. I am taking a break from writing for a little while, but I promise I will return! Thank you for reading and have a fantastic day!

XOXO 3 3 3


End file.
